“What,” said the general, shouting above the roar of the wind that was now like a cyclone, above the screeching of twisted rock and the wrenching of the very bowels of the Earth. “What does that mean?”

“It means that Propkofski must have been right!” said the other, his voice quivering. “The Earth, it seems, is falling into the sun!”

11. The Ifth of Oofth

THE IFTH OF OOFTH

Farnsworth had invented a new drink that night. He called it a mulled sloe gin toddy. Exactly as fantastic as it sounds—ramming a red-hot poker into a mugful of warm red gin, cinnamon, cloves and sugar, and then drinking the fool thing—but like many of Farnsworth’s ideas, it managed somehow to work out. In fact, its flavor had become completely acceptable to me after the third one.

When he finally set the end of his steaming poker back on the coals for regeneration, I leaned back in my big leather chair—the one he had rigged up so that it would gently rock you to sleep if you pressed the right button—and said, “Oliver, your ingenuity is matched only by your hospitality.”

Farnsworth blushed and smiled. He is a small, chubby man and blushes easily. “Thank you,” he said. “I have another new one. I call it a jelled vodka fizz—you eat it with a spoon. You may want to try it later. It’s—well—exceptional.”

I suppressed a shudder at the thought of eating jelled vodka and said, “Interesting, very interesting,” and since he didn’t reply, we both stared at the fire for a while, letting the gin continue its pleasant work. Farnsworth’s bachelor home was very comfortable and relaxing, and I always enjoyed my Wednesday night visits there thoroughly. I suppose most men have a deep-seated love for open fires and liquor—however fantastically prepared—and leather armchairs.

Then, after several minutes, Farnsworth bounced to his feet and said, “There’s a thing I wanted to show you. Made it last week. Didn’t pull it off too well, though.”

“Really?” I said. I’d thought the drinks had been his weekly brainchild. They seemed quite enough.

“Yes,” he said, trotting over to the door of the study. “It’s downstairs in the shop. I’ll get it.” And he bounced out of the room, the paneled door closing as it had opened, automatically, behind him.

I turned back to the fire again, pleased that he had made something in the machine shop—the carpentry shop was in a shed in the backyard; the chemistry and optical labs in the attic—for he was at his best with his lathe and milling machines. His self-setting, variable-twist thumb bolt had been a beautiful piece of work and its patent had made him a lot of money.